Collecting Strays
by SpiritBearr
Summary: John is battle-weary, wounded, exhausted, and heartsick. Sherlock is just sick and wounded, period. And Mycroft, bless his little heart, is possessive and nearly big enough to act on it.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Collecting Strays- Needing Each Other **

**Rating: T to be safe**

**Summary:John is battle-weary, wounded, exhausted, and heartsick. Sherlock is just sick and wounded, period. And Mycroft, bless his little heart, is possessive and nearly big enough to act on it. **

**A/N: I have taken a few liberties here, and the first thing I will do is name them. For starters, I believe 'Alfie', or Alfred Webber, is the creation of KCS; if there is an 'Alfie' in the books, I haven't met him yet. I've only read a few Sherlock Holmes stories. Now, by a few, I don't mean one or two; I've got a collection of the best of Sherlock Holmes mysteries on my shelf and the complete collection Volume One right beside it. But while I've finished reading the first, I'm only half-way through the Sign of the Four in the second. So suffice to say I've read a huge amount of the shorts and only one and a half of the novels. I've also listened to a few audio books and seen, of course, the new movie, though it's the only Sherlock Holmes movie I've ever sat through. Also, I've absorbed a huge amount of fanfic. So saying, I have not come across this child or if I did, I don't remember him. Therefore, if KCS or any of her friends here want me to nix the irregular from this story, just PM me. ^^ **

**Second issue to be addressed is accents. I don't write them, not in any great amount. So sorry. Use your imaginations, it's better anyway. Haha. **

**Next up is partly already addressed above; my Holmes knowledge is an ever growing and expanding thing, and I can only hope and pray I've got everyone in character. According to readers of my Trek fiction, I do a good job of characterizing _those _boys and girls; hopefully I can do the same here. I hope my Watson, Holmes, and Mycroft sound like themselves, along with everyone else. **

**Final on the menu, I believe is that fact that I am painfully American. Therefore, so is my writing. While I try to keep it sounding....appropriate....I'm not going to try to mimic Doyle's style, use British slang (for the most part) or anything of the like. **

**Now that that's been addressed; please, do, review and enjoy the following little AU. It will probably be four chapters long, if that. I hope ya'll enjoy it, and don't worry; I haven't stopped my Star Trek fics. **

The boy is large for his age, but still not much more then a boy, size aside. No more then fourteen in age, John assumes. Not fat, exactly- was it possible for an urchin to be _fat_?- but with proper living and care he certainly has the potential to be big and powerful. His hair is black as raven feathers and his eyes are a piercing gray, cold and uninviting as the ocean on a stormy morning. He wears tattered clothing and shoes, and his skin is dark and weathered with outdoor life; but none of that holds Watson's attention.

What held his attention is the blood coating the thick hands.

"You're a doctor, right?" The boy asks. His voice is thickly accented but it's obvious that this child is intelligent from the way he speaks. He's calm, too calm for a child of fourteen, but his hands are shaking, and his breath is far too shallow. "He said you'd come-said we could trust you."

The look in the boy's eyes says he doesn't totally believe this, but it also says he's desperate. And scared.

"You can." John Watson is well known among street rabble. He's a war veteran, at one time a medic and a doctor and possibly could have been a well respected, even well off man, if that was the kind of person he was. But instead he lives in moderate lodgings in a home owned by a woman who is a very dear friend and has allowed him to board there for less then she normally might ask in exchange for his help around the place, and tends not only to well off patrons but instead to those who needed medical aid but couldn't always afford it.

He doesn't know who this 'he' was, but it doesn't really matter; it could have been any one of the children who came to him for aid and comfort. What matters was that a frightened, intelligent, brave teenager is staring at him with too-old eyes and silently begging.

He doesn't usually go to his patients, not these ones, anyhow; typically, they show up at his front door. He's weaker in body then he'd like to be, an old wound at his shoulder and another in his leg leaving him in constant, if dull pain, that when strained too far spiked into cramping, burning agony. As such, he was no longer in the condition to be crawling and running after urchins through their back-ally roadways, and they all know it.

That this boy has shown up without the injured party meant that the child hurt was too badly hurt to move.

"You can," He repeats, grabbing up coat and stick and medical supplies and leaving the door wide open. "May I ask your name?"

Blink, and the boy shuffles back a step, uncertain, skittish as a wolf. It makes John's heart ache, that life should have made one so young so wary.

"Come now," He says, more gently, joining the boy on the step. "You know mine."

"John Watson." Comes the prompt reply. "Ex-military, honorably discharged, medical man, widower, and recently, too, from the lingering discoloration of skin on that hand." The boy looks up, storm-cloud eyes unwavering. "Don't look so surprised, it's only a little of what I can tell about you. It's simple, really, even my brother-" He stops, suddenly, jaw snapping shut. "Even my brother can do it, and he's only seven." He finishes after a moment.

"Your brother. That's who we're going to help?" He asks gently, mind whirring at the sheer force of intelligence and personality lurking in this boy. How did such a child end up on the streets? Clearly educated, even well breed, clever and smart, used to being around adults. "Can I know his name?"

".....Sherlock." Comes the whispered reply. "His name is Sherlock. I'm Mycroft."

Sherlock and Mycroft. Well, if that isn't evidence enough that he's dealing with an unusual situation he doesn't know what is.

"What's happened to Sherlock?" He asks gently, and gets a stare that would put some adults to shame. He blinks at the intensity of that stare; despite the blood and filth, there is something of a cat in Mycroft's eyes. Something haughty, arrogant, and aloof; utter disdain in the way he tilts his head and sniffs. This was not anything like what John is used to seeing in any child, let alone one on the streets.

"Don't talk to me like I'm simple." He snaps, "And don't patronize me. I'm not one of your little band of urchins."

_Well, excuse me, your highness. _He's torn between annoyance and amusement, and lifts a brow at the child.

"Apologies." He replies stiffly, eying the miniature adult walking at his side. "What's the problem, then?" He couldn't help but let his lips twitch a bit as Mycroft sniffed in approval at the more adult tone.

Then the boy at his side sobers, and lowered his head, and dark brows drew together in a quiet, much subdued expression of concern.

"He's been shot." He says simply, and John closes his eyes at the pang that shoots through his chest. He wishes he could be more shocked at the fact that a seven year old boy had been shot; but after all he'd seen and been through it's only a dull, throbbing ache. "He's insatiably curious, and tends to put himself in situations he shouldn't be in. I'm not sure of the circumstances; I could tell you where and when it happened, but I was more concerned with tending to my brother then going and investigating the place he was hurt." A pause.

By this time, they've gotten themselves in a back street, and are traversing along refuse and abandoned homes; it was at one of these empty places of residence that Mycroft stopped. He pushed open the door, which swung in to nearly falling off it's hinges, and they both paused. It's a dusty, dingy place, with broken furniture and fabric draped over odd, lurking shapes in nearly every corner; drapes half-covered one or two windows, tablecloths others.

"He's upstairs." Mycroft tells Watson, as they pause. He then turns, giving him a skeptical look. "You _can_ make it up stairs, I assume? I saw at least seventeen in your flat."

_Cheeky little bugger, this one, _John thinks, torn yet again between annoyance and amusement. "I'm not a complete invalid, no." He drawls. It might be painful, but pain had long since become an old companion, and he'd adjusted. Besides, there aren't many stairs, and most of them are broken; at least twice Mycroft has to hop, and Watson near follow suit. His longer stride was all that helped.

"How did you get him up here?" He asks, slightly out of breath by the top, after they'd both narrowly missed tumbling down when a step broke under John's weight. The boy turns, slate eyes quietly amused and one eyebrow arched.

"He's only seven, I said." He reminds. "And tiny. Sherlock's always been a bird when it comes to food, even before. And while I'm sure he's going to get height on him- our entire family is-_was_-" He pauses, pain flashing through his eyes but gone before John can even really see it, "-tall-he hasn't gotten hardly above my knees yet."

Not hard to believe. This Mycroft boy is, as noted, tall and broad; easily topping the height of most other fourteen year old boys. He'd probably be well over six feet as an adult, John muses, as he is lead down the hall.

They come to yet another door, and this time, Mycroft raps gently before pushing it open. There, huddled in the semi-dark of the room, on a small cot on the floor, is the lad who can only be Sherlock. John recognizes one of the other of his boys- a lean, slender redhead named Alfie who lives with his grandmother- sitting next to it, mopping the curled figure's forehead.

"Doctor!" Alfie chirps, looking up. "I didn't know if Myke'd listened to me 'r not when I told 'im to fetch you."

"No, I just left my brother all alone to go on an adventure." Mycroft snarks in reply. Alfie gives him a wounded look.

"Wasn't alone! I've been takin' real good care of 'im, haven't I?" His voice softens a bit as he leans in to the huddled figure.

"He has." Comes the tired, whispered reply. The voice is deep for a child's, and, like Mycroft's, there is a very adult note in it. It's aching, and soft, and when he takes a step into the room Mycroft moves so protectively towards the little figure on the bed that for a moment John thinks he might bite.

"Easy, it's alright." He says, lifting his hands. "I can't help him if you don't let me near him." Mature and adult or not, this is still just a teenage boy, scared and alone, with a badly hurt younger brother.

"The doc's alright, Myke." Alife pushes upright, takes Mycroft's sleeve in his grip. "You c'n trust 'im, I promise."

John moves around the two boys, dropping painfully to his knees and gently pulling back the ragged, dirty blankets. There, in the bundle of it all, is the boy, his tiny patient. And Mycroft is right; he _is_ small. Thin, nearly too much so, with a mess of black hair like his brother's and the same storm cloud eyes, he reminds John of nothing so much as a wounded bird. The badly bandaged hole in his shoulder is soaked through with blood, and is helplessly dirty; thoughts of infection and disease swarm through Watson's mind.

"Hello." He greets softly, reaching out to brush aside a strand of coal hair. "Sherlock."

Those eyes scan and study him levelly. "He shouldn't have called you-"

"I very much beg to differ. I'm going to check you for fever, so I'll need you to stay quiet."

"Can you do that, Sherlock?" Mycroft has knelt on the other side, and his tone is gentle but ribbing. The boy's gray eyes flash with spirit, for only just one moment, and he rolls his head back around to his brother.

"He's got an infection." Comes the reply a few minutes later. "The bullet, at least, went cleanly through, and as far as I can tell hit nothing vital." He pushes a hand through his hair. Alfie is watching, in the corner, and young Sherlock is curled happily like a cat in John's lap, practically purring. He's found the child to be incredibly hungry for gentle touch, but skittish of _any_ touch. After the wound had been tended to, the exhausted, hurting boy had allowed Watson to draw him into his lap, though, and is more then half asleep there now. Mycroft watches from a protective distance.

"So, as long as the infection is tended to properly, he'll heal?"

A low, harsh breath. "Alfie, lad, shouldn't you be headed home?"

Alfie's green eyes flash up to him, "But what about Sherlock?"

"Sherlock will be fine, Alfred." Mycroft said quietly from his corner. "You've done a marvelous job."

"Poor thing is exhausted, but he'll live." John adds, as Alfie begins to gather his things._ So long as he gets out of here, and has some real food and care,_ he doesn't add. "I'll take care of the rest, Alfie. Go home. You can come by tomorrow and check on him, if you wish."

"Come by?" Mycroft's eyebrow arches, and he tips his head at John like a bird, pushing up to his feet, half-crouched. He knows, John knows he does, and there is something of a way animal in his gaze.

"Yes. Come by my flat, where I'm taking both of you."

"No." The word is instant, and flat, and everything about the boy just goes cold as ice. "We're not going anywhere, least of all with you."

"He's got an infection." John snaps back, as the boy in his arms moans. "He can't stay here."

"....Myke, when I said you c'n trust 'im-"

"Alfie." John turns, giving the boy a significant look. "Your grandmother will be concerned. How long have you been here?"

"Since Myke went t' get you, Doctor." Alfie admits, with a little blush.

"So a few hours, at the least. Go on home, and come by tomorrow."

"I said, we're not-"

"And _I _said you are." He snaps, more strongly. "I'm not- I can't- let you both stay here, not with him hurting like this. Not as a doctor, and not as a person."

The teen shuffles back a step, his eyes staying very level on John, hands clenching and unclenching.

"Mycroft," John says gently, "you told me there were a dozen things that you could tell about me just by looking. Look at me now, and tell me if I'm going to hurt you. Either of you. If I could _ever _hurt you."

Mycroft's steely eyes flick over his face, the boy's breathing fast and shallow. "I can't-"

"Yes, you can." John gathers the now-sleeping younger brother gently in the cradle of his arms, holding the far-too-small seven year old out to his brother. "I'm a doctor, Mycroft, it goes against everything in me to cause harm to others."

"You were also a solider." John flinches at the pointed reminder. "Being a doctor doesn't mean anything. There are doctors who are just as evil as anyone else."

"I'm capable of doing harm. That doesn't mean I enjoy it." John says, very softly. "Think about Alfie, and the other boys. Would they trust me, if I was someone harmful?"

"....I shouldn't have called them your urchins." Comes the soft reply. "That was cruel of me. They've been nothing but kind. And I suppose Sherlock and I are as much urchins, now, as they." He takes the boy, cradles him gently and strokes his hair. Sherlock makes a gentle snuffling sound and nuzzles closer to his brother's chest. John's face softens, and he wants nothing so badly as to reach out and embrace both boys, but something tells him not to.

"Yes, it was cruel." John says, very softly. "True, but unkind. And neither of you are anything of the kind, I assure you." He says gently, using his cane to lever himself to his feet. It's an effort, after kneeling for so long, and he's not looking forward to the walk home. "You haven't answered me."

".....They do seem to have the utmost faith in you." There it is again, the sign of a well-breed boy thrust into his circumstances by a twist of fate rather then birth.

"They have a reason to." He extends a hand. "Come on, lad. You've got to be exhausted, protecting and tending to him like you've been. You need food, and rest, and I'm sure you'd like a bath and to at least get those cloths cleaned?" He added, eyebrows arched. If this is, indeed, a well-born child thrust into the life of a street urchin, then he would probably feel....filthy. The look in those gray eyes confirmed it, and Mycroft pushed himself carefully to his feet, brother held gently to his chest.

And this is how Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes came to stay with John Watson.

Learning to live with each other was, in many ways, quite another matter.


	2. Chapter 2

The landlady in Mrs. Hudson is not thrilled when a muck covered, dripping wet, stinking, dusty John Watson came trooping back inside followed by two small children in much the same condition.

The woman in her instantly feels her heart go out to the impossibly small child huddled in the older one's arms. And the older boy is too thin for his size, watching everyone and everything like a wounded animal, the other boy-clearly his younger brother- curled so protectively against his chest. He freezes when she appears around the corner, going stiff and still, one leg back behind the other. Prepared, she realizes with an aching sorrow, to bolt.

"It's alright." John is saying, and he subtly lifts a hand to stay her. "This is the lady I told you about, remember? Mrs. Hudson? You've got a mind like a bear trap, Mycroft. I told you about her not ten minutes ago."

The boy relaxes a fraction, looking from her to John to her again. John shrugs out of his coat.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Mycroft and his brother, Sherlock. They've had a rough time of it the last few days, so I've told them they can stay here for a bit to catch their breath."

"Of course, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson murmurs, noting how the older brother relaxes further at the doctor's calm, level tone. She takes the hint, giving a flash of a smile.

"You two look like you could use a hot meal." She says, "and a bath."

"I've got the second one covered." Watson tells her, "But I'm sure they'd both appreciate the former."

She nods, once, and disappears into the other room.

John leads the two boys upstairs, where he settles Sherlock comfortably on the sofa with Mycroft in a chair just across from him. The younger boy instantly whines when the warmth and familiarity of his brother's hold is gone, and John tucks an afghan gently around him.

"He can stay in the guest bedroom tonight. You both can." He says, as he checks the boy's temperature and the wound. "I'll show you where everything you'll need is." He turns, crouches in front of Mycroft. Instantly the boys sort of-draws back- and John moves an inch or so, until it's established he's not crowding the aloof young man and Mycroft relaxes. It's odd, for a child of any age to have such a real area of personal space, and more so for one on the streets. Most of the children he tends to have no idea what 'personal space' even means. Yet another reason why this boy is so unusual.

"As long as you two stay here, you don't need to steal or beg," He says quietly, "and in fact, if I catch you at the former, we're going to have a problem, you and I."

Flash of spirit in those steel colored eyes. "You're not my father. You don't even know me."

"No, I'm not, and no, I don't, but until that little one is healthy again, you're in my care. If you don't like that, you're welcome to walk out that door right now; but I will not allow you to be selfish enough to take him with you."

"He needs me." Comes the bark back, the boy straightening in the chair. His eyes are fairly blazing now, and it's eerie with how calm his voice and face are, like fire smoldering under wood. "You can't-"

"I _can_." He retorts. "I don't like threatening you, Mycroft, but I won't let you drag him back out there until he's healthy again. So you either accept that you've got a few rules to abide by, or you leave now and I'll send him to you when he can go. I'm fairly lax when it comes to rules, and I will never strike you, or even raise my hand to you. You're old enough and have been on your own long enough to be treated like the semi-adult you are. I'm not going to force you;_ it's up to you_. But where I will_ not_ move is on the subject of that child."

Mycroft is heaving with anger, jaw set tightly. "Fine." He spits at last, and his hands are digging into the chair so hard his knuckles are white. John releases a soft breath; with intelligence and independence also came a rebellious nature. Not surprising.

"Good." He says gently, and dares to pat Mycroft's knee. The teen looks at his hand, then lifts his gaze back to John's face. Before he can say anything else, though, there's a soft groan from the couch, and a very small voice. The tone is pleading and plaintive, filled with far too much pain for such a young boy.

"...'Yke? Where?...."

The reaction is instant. The boy moves faster then any child his size should be able to, sliding off the chair and under John's arm. He's on his knees by the couch in the same movement, stroking Sherlock's dark hair pressing their foreheads together.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. Open your eyes for me."

A soft groan, and John pushes up, waiting by the arm of the sofa as the dark lashes flutter then crack open just a slit.

"Hurts. _Hurts_, Myke."

"I know, little brother. You're going to be alright. Doctor Watson's temporarily adopted us. He's tended to that wound, see?"

"Doctor?..." He doesn't remember, it seems, and he stirs restlessly, head shifting on the pillow. His eyes search the room, breath sucking in sharply. "I don't-hurts."

"Alright." John says softly, remembering the fever. "Mycroft, he's feverish and confused. He's not going to remember a lot of what happened the last few days, and if you explain, he'll just forget again."

"No, he won't." Soft, no anger in the words; but there _is_ force there. "I know my brother."

"Mycroft, he won't be able to-"

"I know my brother." Mycroft lifts his eyes, lips thinned. "Do you think this is the first time he's been sick or badly hurt?"

John blinks, then lets out a low sigh as there is a knock on the door.

"Alright," He says again, more slowly. "Mycroft, that would be your dinner. Go on and let Mrs. Hudson in."

"I'm not leaving him."

_It's four feet away_, John does not snarl. "I need to be with your brother right now, Mycroft, and you need rest and a good meal." He places a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You're not alone anymore." He says, very gently. "You don't have to shoulder it all, not for a while at least. Let me take some of it."

Those cool gray eyes lift, search his face for a moment. From below, Sherlock has latched on to his brother, is shaking violently; and Mycroft gently, gently, disentangles himself.

"Sherlock." He says, brushing the back of his knuckles over the seven year old's cheek. "Doctor Watson is going to take you now. Don't be frightened, we are perfectly safe here."

"'M not scared," Comes the slurred reply, but the little face is pressed into Mycroft's shoulder. "Don't get scared."

John chuckles when Mycroft smiles, and easily moves to switch places. Small hands bury themselves into John's shirt, and Mycroft rises by inches until he is loose and the doctor, instead, kneels by the couch. The boy blindly, in the way of all children, takes whatever comfort is offered, be it his brother or even a strange adult; he's sniffling, but not, John notes, crying even a little. There's something vaguely disturbing in that-a gunshot child should be crying, should be dealing with the pain in a far less adult manner then this little one.

Mycroft moves to the door and takes the proffered tray, closing the door with a foot and setting it down as quickly as possible, to return to the couch.

"No," John says, half amused. "You eat, Mycroft."

In his arms, Sherlock pulls away a bit, now blinking around at the room; his stomach lets out a loud grumble, and John chuckles. "Apparently you need to eat, too, hm?"

Sherlock's eyes find his at last, and instantly he blanches, struggling against the hold as reality returns. "Let go," He mutters, then, louder, "Let go!"

"Alright, alright, whoa, easy, _easy_-" John begins to settle him back onto the couch, watching in alarm as the boy begins to get himself worked up. Mycroft is off the floor in a blurr, moving to shove John aside with all the force an underfeed teenager can manage. (Which, surprisingly, is decently forceful.)

"He doesn't like to be restrained." Mycroft is saying, taking Sherlock's face gently in his hands. "Hush. Sherlock,_ hush_. Stop that nonsense. _Stop it,_ I said." Steel threads in his tone at the last, a sharp contrast with the gentle touch. The boy calms, blinking up at his brother, shuddering all over. "That's doctor Watson. I've told you we're safe here. He's alright. Now, stop behaving like a child. Do you think you can eat?"

The younger boy peeks around his brother, looking at John at last; more alert, more aware, but still foggy with fever and pain.

"Maybe." Comes the whispered reply. Mycroft nods, once, and stands.

"I'm going to bring the food, then. You let the doctor check you over, and _behave_, do you understand?"

John chuckles at the undeniably fatherly tone in the young man's voice. A big brother is a big brother, it seems, no matter the situation.

One meal later, and one _bath_ later, John has both boys dressed in two of his own shirts while their own cloths are being cleaned. His shirt goes to Sherlock's ankles, and Mycroft's knees; and for the first time they _look _like the kids they are. Mycroft's shaggy black hair falls in his eyes, and his arms are around his sibling's waist, the pair curled up on the couch, talking softly.

"Room's ready for you." John says, after admiring the sight for a moment. Mycroft's gray eyes lift to him, and Sherlock half-turns, fever bright eyes still startlingly alert.

"Thank you," He rasps, but there is something wary in his eyes, and when he tries to sit up, pain creases his face and he falls back.

"Don't," John warns. "Mycroft or I will carry you there."

"I don't need to be carried!" His eyes snap open again. "I was shot in the shoulder, not the leg."

"The key words there, being 'I was shot'." Mycroft points out dryly. "I still mean to find out what you were doing to wind up that way, when you're feeling better."

Sherlock sets his jaw defiantly, looking away; his hand lifts to his wounded shoulder and he closes his eyes.

"Tired?" John asks, softly, and he shrugs, pressing his face into Mycroft's shoulder yet again, letting out a low whimpering sound.

"Still want to try walking?" Mycroft teases, hands rubbing up and down his brother's back. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get some rest."

John extends a hand, and to his utter surprise, after a long minute, Mycroft accepts it, letting John haul him upright. He bends and scoops up his smaller brother, who grumbles tiredly.

"I'm not a invalid-I don't want-" And then a yawn, wide enough to make his eyes water, interrupts him, and John laughs softly.

"Sherlock, shut up." Mycroft mutters, but there is amusement in his tone, too. "And be grateful you're still of an age where people will pity you enough to carry you about like a lump."

"You don't pity me, you just like reminding me you're bigger."

"And older."

Another yawn is his only reply, squeaking at the end; Mycroft laughs softly and John shakes his head as the boy drops his protests to snuggle into his brother's hold, instead.

"You're going to let me stay with him, right?" Mycroft asks, suddenly. John stumbles in surprise at the question, looks down at the teen who is so tenderly cradling his exhausted, hurting brother.

"Of course." John replies, opening the bedroom door. "If he wakes up alone, it will do far more harm then good. And he trusts you where he does not- understandably-trust me."

"He trusts you." Mycroft corrects gently. "If he didn't, we wouldn't still be here."

And with that, the boy takes his brother into the spare bedroom, and gently closes the door. He doesn't lock it.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I'm not sure if a preying mantis could or could not wind up in the rooms of 221b Baker Street. Pretend it could. That is all. /End mildly embarrassed rant.

"Holmes."

"What?"

"That's our last name. Holmes." Mycroft is watching his brother across the room, who is deeply engrossed in reading and seemingly oblivious to the conversation. After two weeks, though, John knows better then to accept that at face value; likely Sherlock is aware of every word being spoken. "You asked."

"I asked almost a full week ago, Mycroft."

"And I'm telling you_ now_." Mycroft slants him an irritated gaze. "It doesn't matter anymore, anyway."

"Of course it does." John lowers his newspaper, focusing on the older brother. In the two weeks the boys have stayed here, he's learned much about them; they are both frighteningly intelligent, clever, and observant. They're savagely, fiercely loyal to each other, very aloof, and as skittish as a pair of wolves.

He was right; they are both very clearly educated and born to a decently well off family; according to Mycroft, they are experienced horsemen, and the older has been taught in the art of self-defense and fencing; the younger to a lesser degree, simply because of his age. They are both quiet, well mannered boys, though it seems more out of circumstance then nature; they're scared, even though neither will admit or show it. They're not sure of their place here, or what's going to happen next; and despite what they've been through they've been urchins long enough to feel insecure about being wanted. He wonders how long it'll be before he discovers what they're really like, if ever.

"Does it?" Mycroft lifts an eyebrow, as Sherlock rolls over on his back, still reading. His fever is nearly gone, but the wound is still healing, and the boys themselves in a pitiful state; underfeed, undernourished, their immune systems weak (making Sherlock's healing more slow then it should be), skittish and wary and utterly untrusting. "They're dead, aren't they? And we're just us. _Sherlock_!" Because his brother has lost interest in the book and, while they were talking, managed to worm his way under the couch.

The seven year old jumps, then yips in pain as his head connects with the underside of the couch and his shoulder protests the motion. Chuckling, John pulls himself to his feet with some effort, watching Sherlock wriggle his way free and pop up, rubbing the back of his head.

"Why were you under my couch?" He asks, glancing back at Mycroft and mouthing _'we're not done yet'. _

"You didn't see her? _Look_!" Excitedly, the seven year old extends a clenched fist, and John blanches.

"Sherlock Holmes, I have no desire to see a bug-"

"So that's why it matters, you can use our full names-"

"Mycroft, _hush_-"

"It's not just a bug!" Sherlock's young voice cuts off the impending argument. He opens his hands, very slowly, revealing the praying mantis that somehow has gotten inside the house. It's wounded; one leg's gone wrong. But it seems enthusiastic and strong enough; it's investigating his wrist and palm with it's front feet interestedly. "These are rare. They're intelligent and friendly, too; isn't she beautiful?"

John chuckles once more. This isn't the first time the boy's shown fascination with everything around him. He has a burning desire to know; to learn. And while his interest is limited to certain areas, he shows far more potential then any seven year old has the right to. John wonders what he'd be like in a healthy environment, with a mother and father and proper home.

"You've wounded her, Sherlock."

Indigent, angry stare upwards. "I did no such thing. She was limping across the fl-fl-oh." He stops, closing his eyes, and the mantis drops to the floor to limp away as he reels. John grabs his good shoulder, proping the boy up.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" Mycroft, from behind them; he stops just the other side of John. Sherlock nods, once, but when Mycroft hits his knees attaches to the older boy feircly.

"He's overdone himself, that's all." John says gently. "I told you to stay laying down yesterday, and this is what happens when you don't listen." This last, more sternly directed to Sherlock.

"I was bored." The seven year old protests, not quite whining but only breaths away from it. "One can only read in a bed laying still and quiet for so long-"

"And you possess the attention span of a goldfish." Mycroft adds with a roll of his eyes. John eases the child back onto the couch. Mycroft, for his part, has captured the mantis again gently, and she's wandering up along his arm without too much difficulty.

"I wonder how she got this far." John murmurs, as Mycroft kneels to let the bug crawl back onto Sherlock's palm. "Poor lady."

"Putting her back outside just means she'll probably be killed." Sherlock's voice is weak, but his eyes are bright and interested.

"She doesn't stand anymore of a chance inside. She'll die either way." There is something far too calm and accepting in Mycroft's voice, and Sherlock's eyes, at this statement.

"Are both of you forgetting that I'm a doctor?" He forces his voice to be light and lilting, banishing the shudder of unease at the solemness and dark maturity of these children.

"But this is a bug." Sherlock points out, at the same time as Mycroft lifts a brow.

"Are you going to put an itty-bitty cast on her leg, then?" The older brother drawls sarcastically, and not a little cheekily. John sends him a warning glance.

"Mycroft." He scolds mildly, reaching out to take the mantis. He stands, mantis still on his arm. "What I mean is, I'm not just going to stand by and let something die. Even her."

"What are you going to do with her, then?" Sherlock is half sitting up now, looking just so interested and bright and forgetting his pain. John chuckles, and extends a hand to Mycroft.

"Help your brother," He says, "and I'll show you."

"Didn't you say he should stay still?" Mycroft questions, somewhat dubiously, even as Sherlock is already struggling to get up again. Struggling, because Mycroft's hand is pressing down against his chest. John laughs softly, listening to the snarling protests of the younger brother.

"This won't take long. Besides, if you honestly think we'll get him to stay put-"

Mycroft snorts. "We could always tie him down."

"That would strain the wound." John teases, as Sherlock falls into a full-on pout and swats at his brother's shoulder.

With a closed fist.

"_Ow_! Sherlock!"

"Let me up, then, you lump!"

"Mycroft, if you reopen your brother's wound I don't care how old you are or if you're not my own son, I will _put you over my knee_. Sherlock, you have till three to_ settle_ or I so help me I'll lock you in that bedroom!"

Both boys stop, staring at John, and then Sherlock makes a strangled kind of snorting noise that quickly deteriorates into giggles. Mycroft's lips twitch until he's grinning rather sheepishly, and he pulls away from his sibling. Then he's chuckling, too, and even John can't help but join in with a wry sigh.

"Do you have protestations to being carried, Sherlock?" John asks, smiling at the still-laughing child. He's been so sober and quiet, and this is the first childish act or sound John's been able to get from him. It's a beautiful sound in many ways; along with the glittering eyes and soft, shy smile, John counts it as a rather unintentional victory.

"I can walk. I'm not crippled." He protests, but Mycroft is already gathering his brother in his arms like a sack of potatoes.

"If you want to see, hush and don't wiggle." Mycroft barks, and Sherlock is torn between childish amusement at his situation and pure annoyance.

Outside they went, Mycroft righting his brother in his arms. They went to the first tree they could find, artificial though it may be, and John gently deposited the insect onto the tree. She stumbled, once, and then caught her balance, in moments stalking the branches for her lunch.

"There, see? Now she's got a chance." He said. "I don't know how she wound up here, but let's hope she finds her new home acceptable. Now, back inside, before Sherlock gets it in his head to escape."

* * *

"Mycroft?"

The large teen stops, turning in the hall to peer down curiously at John.

"Come here, will you?"

"Sherlock's going to want me." But Mycroft turns, heads back down the five stairs he's ascended to pause by where John is standing, waiting. He's already realized how much the boys hate to be separated, even for a brief time; Sherlock has a fiercely independent streak and a dangerous sense of curiosity, like Mycroft suggested, but when it comes to things like sleeping they are so attached at the hip it's almost unhealthy. They're frightened of being separated, and he knows from one night's harsh experience that Sherlock has some rather colorful nightmares when Mycroft isn't there.

"He can start the bath without you." He takes a breath. "I wanted to finish the conversation from before."

"There was a conversation? I thought I simply made a statement you disagreed with."

John sighs, leaning on the railing of the stairs as much to get the weight off his bad leg as anything else. "I do disagree with it."

A pause. "Would you like to go up? You can sit down." Quietly, steel eyes searching, seeking, and finding.

"I'm going to bed soon myself. I'm alright." John says. "Don't change the subject. Mycroft, understand something-"

One hand lifts, holding out for silence. "Don't." He says, shaking his head. "It is far more then our parents being dead, Doctor Watson."

"If it doesn't matter, why did you tell me?"

A pause, and Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. "You wondered."

"You didn't have to say anything." John points out, logically. "But you did. Common sense says you wanted me to know- to draw attention to it."

"I-" Mycroft stops, jaw set for a moment.

"Mycroft. Whatever has happened- _whatever_ has happened- in your lives is your secret to keep. You don't need to tell me anything, not now or ever." He smiles a little. "But saying things like your name doesn't matter; it does. You matter. You both matter very much. Your situation has changed. But Mycroft Holmes is still Mycroft Holmes, whether or not there's a family backing it up."

Mycroft studies him for a long moment, then simply turns and moves up the seventeen stairs, to where his brother is just framed by the light of the bedroom, in the doorway and waiting for him. John closes his eyes and waits until the door closes, then rubs a hand over his face. The problem is, he's not sure Mycroft likes who he is; or maybe even really knows anymore.

These boys are delicate and special, and John has absolutely no intention of letting them just go back out onto the streets.

Little does he realize just how soon this problem's going to be thrown into their faces. Like the next morning.

* * *

"What did he want?"

"Nothing. Did you take a bath?"

"If it was nothing, he wouldn't have called you back. You know I didn't."

"Here, I'll help. You need to keep your bandages _dry_."

"_Mycroft_."

"Don't whine at me, Sherlock."

"It's about whatever you two were whispering over when I was supposed to be reading, isn't it?"

"....You little-"

"You should know better then to talk about anything you don't want me to hear when I'm in the room. You're just as bad."

"It's rude to eavesdrop. Stop _squirming_!"

"You never used to care. Ow!"

"I thrashed you every time I caught you spying on me. And I'll do it now if you don't _stop squirming_!"

"But you never used to_ care_. You're going to drown me, and then Watson'll be angry-"

"_Doctor _Watson. Have you retained no manners after barely a year?"

"You're chang~ing the sub~ject.I never had any to start with."

"Trying to. And no, you didn't."

"And you did?"

"At least I know how to act like it."

"What were you two-Mmmcrofpht!"

"And that is why I told you to be still. Are you alright? Sherlock, good lord, breathe."

".....Ack! Soap!"

"We keep our mouth shut in the tub, dear brother."

"Soap! Burns! Stop_ laughing_!"

"I'm not."

"Are."

"Am not."

"Are!"

".....I am not doing this. I am far too old to do this with you."

".....you were. What were you talking about, Mycroft?"

"You're worse then a terrier with a rat. John just wanted to know our last names, so I told him."

".....and you told him-"

"_No_. And you won't, either, do you understand me?"

"I don't need to be told, Mycroft!"

"I know. I know you don't. Here, dry off."

"....When are we going to go?"

"When you're better."

"I'm better."

"No, you are not. You're feverish, weak, and if that shoulder gets infected-"

"If we don't go he's going to figure out what really happened. And if he figures out what really happened, we'll end up getting sent back. Or to an orphanage. And if we go either place, they'll split us up. Again. And then they'll take me away again and then he'll find you-"

"Sherlock. You're rambling. Sherlock. _Sherlock_."

"...."

"There. Calm down, now, that's enough of that. Look at me. Deep breath, slow, hold it....now let it out. Good boy. Once more. Good. Now. I won't let that happen. I promised, didn't I? Ah, _Sherlock_. It's all fine. It's fine. I'm here. Right here. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, so maybe just a little more then four chapters. Ehehe....**

Alfie, later, would feel so guilty that he kept apologizing for days. John told him each time that no such thing was necessary, that it was no one's fault, but the boy was not overeager to accept it.

Despite whatever is occurring in his personal life, John is still, first and foremost, a doctor. Which means when he is awoken early in the morning by a frantic pounding on the front door before the sun is even up, he has no choice but to stagger up and downstairs, aching and cold and generally irritable. He's never been fond of being awoken, particularly not early, but his good nature prevents him from being truly annoyed.

From the room across the hall, two dark heads peak out at John as he goes by, and he is aware that his new little flat mates fall in step behind him, Sherlock darting past to get to the door first- "Sherlock, _careful_ on the stairs, lad, you're still hurt-" and Mycroft dropping into step just behind. It's odd, how natural it feels; like the two boys have always been there, like it was where they were meant to be.

Sherlock has glanced back at him for permission, and John nods- the door is tugged open with some effort and the small seven year old stares up at their visitor, who seems surprised indeed to see a dark haired, gray eyed child blinking up curiously at him.

"I- do I-is this the right-"

"You're looking for Doctor Watson?"

"Yes." Relief touched the man's eyes. "How did you-"

"You've the right place." Sherlock twists, points at the man descending the stairs. "And the fact that you're here before sunup means there was some kind of emergency. Plus you're not dressed for the cold- and your shoes aren't buckled properly. You were dist-mmph!" Mycroft's hand has closed around his younger brother's mouth and dragged him backwards. John chuckles wearily as the older brother hauls the younger back to the stairs.

"Impressive for a seven year old boy, Sherlock, but as usual the obvious eludes you. When a man arrives, in a disheveled panic, before sunup, looking for a doctor, he does not want to stand there and listen to a seven year old boy tell him his life story based off the stains on his knees."

"But he asked-!"

"Then you say 'the way you are dressed'. Honestly, it's times like this I don't believe I'm related to you-"

_I do_, John thinks fondly, but then he's off the stairs and in front of their unexpected visitor. "What's the problem?" He asks, shrugging into a coat; it wouldn't be the first time he was hauled from his home in nothing but his bed-cloths and a coat.

It turned out the man's daughter had been sick and taken a rather violent and abrupt turn for the worst that night. John feels a sick sort sort of dread when he hears that; people who come to him in these situations usually don't realize how dangerous said illness is; how quickly it can kill, when it turns violently.

He whirls, where Mycroft and Sherlock are now standing a bit closer, watching him with somber, dark eyes; Mycroft is standing oddly, he notes, half in front of his little brother with an arm across the child's chest. There is undeniable protectiveness in the guesture, as if he expects someone to grab him at any moment.

"Mycroft," He says, "I don't know when I'll be back. Behave, listen to Mrs. Hudson, and if you need me-" He gives them the adress while he grabs his stick and his bag. "You can remember that, I assume?"

"Of course." Mycroft still has Sherlock pushed behind him.

"Good. Don't leave." He says, making it a request. "I'll worry myself sick if I get back and you're gone; that wound needs another few weeks at least." Not only that, but he's getting rather attached to the boys with frighting speed; and there is a small, whispering part of himself that doesn't want them to go _ever_.

It is Sherlock who speaks up. "We'll be here when you get back."

"I hope you are." He says gently, and is gone out the front door.

When he gets back, nearly two full days later, he's victorious. He's saved a little girl from dying of pneumonia. It was a long, hard struggle; she was premature to begin with, young and small and vulnerable, but he'd done it- with his skills, God's mercy and the amazing strength and resilience of a child. He's not heard anything from Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, or Sherlock; he assumes that means all is going well, if not necessarily peacefully. He has the odd feeling 'peaceful' is something that will not be in his vocabulary often anymore, not with these two. But he's wet and cold, limping and tired and starving, and can only focus on getting home. Home, with his newfound, however temporary, little family.

When he gets there, though, his happy exhaustion fades into twisting, sickening horror.

His boys -yes, _his_ boys-are gone, Mrs. Hudson is unconscious, and Alfred Webber is sobbing helplessly in a corner and clutching a broken arm.

* * *

This is the explanation.

Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were born to a fairly well off family fourteen and seven years ago, respectively. Their parents were never abusive but they were emotionally absent; their mother disturbed by the brilliance and eccentricities of her own children and their father simply not the kind of man who ever should care for anyone under the age of nineteen. They spent most of their young lives in boarding schools, and it was sheer luck-or unluck, whichever- that they were home the day everything happened.

The day their father was killed.

It was a robbery gone wrong, everyone said. A botched break in, nothing more, everyone said. But Mycroft and Sherlock had _been there_, and they knew so much better. The thing had not been a break in but a deliberate strike on their family; the two men who had invaded their home had killed their father but left their mother alive.

For a reason, it seemed. With both parents dead, there would be no point in ransom. And they knew that Elizabeth Holmes could very much afford ransom, particularly with her husband dead.

Sadly for the would-be kidnappers, the boys were already running by the time their father hit the floor.

They'd gone out their bedroom window and dashed across the yard and they hadn't stopped running since. And the kidnappers had stayed at their heels. The one time the boys had been caught, by well-meaning adults, and taken into an adoptive home- well. The parents didn't want two children, didn't want a teenager, and Mycroft had been forced to watch as his baby brother was taken away.

When Sherlock had run, no one was surprised. The brothers had found each other nearly a year later, and told each other the same, chilling fact; they were still being chased.

That was the_ real_ reason Sherlock Holmes had been shot in the shoulder.

Mycroft knew better then to let them stay in one place for a long time. He knew he should have kept them moving. But Sherlock was hurt, and they were both so _tired,_ and hungry, and he was just_ sick_ of being cold and dirty and it was so nice to just_ let go _and be a fourteen year old while the adult did adult stuff, not him, for once, and Sherlock had, for the first time in a long time, smiled and laughed and been _happy_. And he'd just- slipped. And the moment he had, the very second he had, everything had fallen down around their ears.

He'd known better.

He pulls Sherlock, now, closer to his chest, moving with a kind of slow grace through the fresh rain as his baby brother whines and coughs softly.

"Easy." He murmurs, ducking 'round a corner and picking up speed. He can feel the warm blood of Sherlock's wound leaking through again, and his heart sinks. "Easy. We got away." _Again. Unlike Alfred. And Mrs. Hudson. Please, let them be alright- _

The whole thing had been quick and vicious. They'd come a full day after Watson had left, expecting to find two young boys utterly alone in a large, unfamiliar house. What they'd found had been two young boys, a landlady, and a third child, none of them helpless, and all of them frightened. But none of them were weak, helpless victims, and the fight had been rather spectacular. In the end, though, Alfie had been hurled into a wall hard enough to snap his arm with a savage cracking sound, and Mrs. Hudson taking a whack over the head.

That's as much as they'd seen, before Mycroft had grabbed hold of Sherlock and_ shoved._

"Run! Run and don't stop!"

"Mycroft-"

"I'm right behind you! Right behind you, Sherlock! _Run_!"

And Sherlock had run.

They'd run until his brother had collapsed.

Run until Mycroft was forced to stop, puffing for air, gathering his shuddering, gently crying brother in his arms.

Now, Mycroft pushes himself off the wall, shifts his grip on Sherlock-who coughs once more- and begins to walk again.

He should have _known better_ then to think they would ever be safe. But at least, John and Alfie and the others were, now. At least that.

And he'll make_ damn _sure his brother is, too. Somehow.

* * *

It takes hours to get everyone taken care of, settled down, and the scene figured out. John hates- hates- setting Alfie's arm, hearing the boy's whimpering cries, and his concern for his two friends swells in his chest when it takes him nearly a full hour to wake Mrs. Hudson and her to return to full awareness. But her concussion is minor, and after Alfie's arm is tended to the boy is alright enough. It's not long before he's sitting upright, proped against John's back with the side of his face pressed against the man's chest. John unhesitatingly pets his hair, offering him comfort and solace.

Finally, finally, he gets the events out of his two distraught companions. But by the time Alfie has explained the situation to him, it's too later to do anything about it but go to the Yard, and even as he does, he knows it isn't going to do one bit of good. The only way to get the boys back is to go after them himself- and he means to.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I hope no one minds the couple of shorter chapters overmuch; they'll get back up in word count in the next few. Thanks for all the support and reviews, guys, I really appreciate it! Also, regarding the family situation; I've not read a whole lot regarding anything in Sherlock or Mycroft's background. I've seen everything in fanfic ranging from them being horribly neglected to abused to living dysfunctional but perfectly loved lives to a combination of all and then some. Usually, I'm a subscriber of a conglomeration of the first and third situations. However, for this particular story's purposes, we're going with the first and second. Consider it, if you wish, an AU all of it's own.  
**

**KCS: I never promised I wouldn't batter Alfie a touch when you let me borrow him. But I swear, you'll get him back in the same condition he was in! And I can't say anyone's getting shot over it. 'Course, I'm not saying 'no', either. ^_^ haha**

"You can't go with me."

"You don't know anythin' 'bout being out there, Doctor, an' I can get you 'round faster. Me and the others, we c'n find 'em in places you can't even get to-"

"Alfie, you need to go home. Home, with your grandmother-"

"I don't_ wanna _go home! I want to help-"

"I know you do." John sighs, pushing his hair out of his face and letting out a hard breath. "But we don't know who these men were who came after Mycroft and Sherlock, and we don't know how dangerous it will be. And you have a_ broken arm_."

Alfie whimpers softly, pressing his face into John's stomach and chest. "I shoulda' watched out. Shoulda seen."

"Oh, Alfie, no." John strokes the boy's hair with a gentle hand. "You tried to help them, and that's more then anyone should expect of you. You were_ very _brave, both of you. If not a little foolish."

"We couldn't just let 'im hurt Sherlock and Mycroft, Doctor!" Alfie pulls back, sniffling, and John absently wipes away the remaining tears on the boy's cheeks. "When they came bargin' in, an' knocked your landlady down tha' way-"

"Where were Mycroft and Sherlock, during this?" He asks. He watches as Alfie pulls himself together, brave little lad, and takes one, two deep breaths.

"Like I said," He says, "They was knockin' on the front door, and just as Mrs. Hudson got there Myke came up to th' top a' the stairwell, yellin' for her not to open it. Ain't never heard him bellow like that, didn't know he could. She'd already got it cracked, though, and someone threw it the rest of the way open. Myke turned right 'round and bolted back up them steps, tellin' me to get gone, yellin' for Sherlock."

John takes a deep, shakey breath. "And?"

Alfie sniffles again, but there are no more tears. "I wasn't gonna just take off an' leave 'em, with Mrs. Hudson hurt an' Myke so scared." He murmurs. "I ain't never seen him scared, neither, no matter what, but this time, he was. Your landlady stood up, wobbly-like, and she came over to me an' told me I needed to go find you-" Here Alfie stops, his little face pinching up with guilt. "I woulda, Doctor, I swear I woulda."

"I know you would have." John strokes a hand over the boy's hair. "But they caught you."

"Tryin' to get out the front door. They bashed Mrs. Hudson over the head and then grabbed me-" He clamps his lips shut, looking away.

"And you said you heard Sherlock and Mycroft get out."

"Sherlock musta' gone out a window, upstairs, 'cause I saw Mycroft go boltin' past without him just a few minutes later." Alfie stands, letting John regain his feet, too. "I think he was tryin' to lead 'em away."

"But it didn't work."

"It didn' work. I heard 'em catchin' up in the street. But, doctor, Myke and Sherlock- they're not stupid, an' they know the streets. Hard to catch one of us if we don't wanna be caught." Alfie assures, very softly.

"Which will make my finding them all the more difficult." John says, but Alfie is already shaking his head.

"I said when they don't wanna be caught." He says, seriously. "They wouldn't hide from you. Not you."

* * *

Sherlock's fevered. He knows he should find a doctor, somewhere- he knows he should find Doctor Watson, for that matter. The wound feels hot, the bandages have come off, and his baby brother is wheezing horribly in the damp, wet air. He's got his jacket and a discarded old blanket he found in the building they are taking shelter in wrapped around the boy's slender form, as well as his arms and one leg, but Sherlock is still shivering violently.

He whimpers Mycroft's name, and the older Holmes brother strokes back the identical dark hair from the miniature version of him self's forehead. "I'm here," He whispers, for the thousandth time that day. "I'm here, Sherlock."

Gray eyes crack open and peer up into gray eyes. "It's cold." He whispers, voice a scrapping rasp. " 'M cold."

"Here. Come here." Mycroft opens his arms up wide, and Sherlock rolls over to bury into his brother's chest. Mycroft rubs his arms along his sibling's back, wincing when another fierce fit of coughing takes the small frame.

"Gonna find us." He whispers, into the soft material. "Wanna go home, Myke. I want to go _home_."

Mycroft closes his eyes against the pricking of tears, takes a deep, calming breath. "We don't have one anymore." He says, as gently as he can. "No sense in wishing for things that can't be."

"Not_ there_." Sherlock's dark eyes meet his, foggy and unfocused with illness. "With Watson. Want to go home with Watson."

Mycroft lets out a shuddering breath. "I know." He replies, petting his brother's hair again. "Me, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffles, coughs violently enough to shake them both and ends it in a pathetic little wheeze. "They're okay, right?"

"Stop talking, Sherlock."

"You don't think so."

".....I don't know. Stop talking."

Sherlock's hands latch on his brother's shirt, and he pulls himself even closer. Mycroft hums softly, kisses his younger brother's head, and prays with all his heart that Watson finds them and that he doesn't find them all at once. Because they can't go back. They lost their pursuers, but the men hunting them won't have just gone away. If they go back, they'll be found again. And besides, John can't keep them forever. Wouldn't want to, anyway, once he realized....once he knew. He'd just send them away; as soon as Sherlock was healed and as soon as he found out how unusual they really were.

Everyone did. Even their own mother no longer wanted them, didn't care if they were taken, didn't care if they died. To her, they were the cause of too much suffering.

She'd never cared much for them to start with.

* * *

Four hours.

He's been looking for them for four hours. He's exhausted and in pain; he's reling more on his stick to get around then his actual legs, and he's soaked to the bone, and all he can think is dear lord, if they're caught in this Sherlock's going to catch his death.

He rounds another corner, into yet a new abandoned buildin-waitamoment.

He freezes, breath catching, when he hears the unmistakable sounds of someone else walking about.

And not a child's footsteps, either.

He swears softly and ducks back. Two rough male voices, arguing; arguing, he realizes a moment later, about _his_ boys. Snarling at each other about where they would hide.

These cowards had attacked a woman and three young boys. These_ cowards_ had broken Alfie's arm. Lord only knew what else they'd done. If they'd been the ones to break in an attack, then likely they'd been the ones to put a bullet in Sherlock's shoulder, too. A seven year old boy._ A child_.

He shifts his grip on his stick and waits.


	6. Chapter 6

He's fairly sure he breaks the man's nose when he steps around the corner. He doesn't bother unsheathing the deadly blade hidden in his stick, doesn't waste it on these ruffians; his fist, at first, is more then enough. There's only two, but they're tall; one lithe like a whip and the other big, built heavily. It's the lithe one he attacks first, slamming his fist into the nose and using his stick to trip the man when he staggers backwards with shock. The man cries out, slams back against the wall clutching his face. John takes his surprise in hand and lands another blow into revealed ribs.

He whirls at the hand grabbing his collar, cane lifted up and between the legs of his second attacker in an unflinching low blow. He kicks the man backwards, down, and his next blow would very likely have sent him into blackness if not for the solid strike to his spine. He grunts with pain and staggers, hitting a knee. But he's an experienced fighter, and not the kind of man who has any compulsions against cheating in a fight against two men who would so abuse children. The moment he's upright again- something of a struggle, game leg not wanting to cooperate, pain shrieking through abused nerves and muscle, but he uses the pain, channels it through his strong arm- he lashes out again and _shatters_ the man's face like it was glass. He hits the already broken nose, then takes advantage of the reeling moment of pain to strike the cheekbone, once, twice.

He falls back with a scream, and barely a moment later Watson is aware of two things- the man who's face he just crushed is writhing helplessly on the ground, and there is the cocking of a revolver behind him. He doesn't think-he reacts.

His stick slams into the hand holding the gun with enough force to snap the weapon away. It goes off; the grapple for it begins. The man who's face he broke is in too much pain at the moment to be very useful; John is grateful for it. He snaps the wrist in his hold, recovers the gun, and steps back, it aimed unwaveringly at the less wounded individual.

"Sit. _Down_." His voice was a low growl that he almost didn't recognize himself; he hadn't heard that tone from himself in a long while.

The man who's face is still leaking blood has managed to squirm into a sitting position, hand cupped over his own face and green eyes half-closed, glaring daggers. His companion is clutching his wrist, unmoving on the other end of the gun.

"I said sit down." He snaps again.

"Who are you?" The man asks, easing down into a sit next to his partner. "What do you want?"

"I could ask you that." He shifts his weight again, suppressing a grunt. The moment either of these men think they see weakness, they'll exploit it. He's glad he didn't have to unsheathe the hidden blade; it allows him to be subtle in settling his weight, taking it off his bad leg. It leaves him unbalanced, so that if either of them try anything he'll probably be sprawled on his back in moments, but if he keeps his weight centered that will happen without anyone's aid.

"You attacked us, mate." Says the one not moaning in helpless agony, and Watson's smile has no humor to it.

"Better to attack two grown men then two helpless children, I think." He says, and both men blanch. He kneels in front of them, gun still leveled. "Now," He says, slowly, "I am a doctor, gentlemen, and it is not in my nature to leave anyone- no matter how vile I may find them- in pain. I may make an exception in this particular case; or I may decide to fix you up a bit before I take you to the authorities. Because, boys, that is where men who shoot seven year old boys wind up. And you're quite lucky I'm not a more vicious type. Men who shoot seven year old boys also quite often end up dead."

"You can't prove-"

"I don't need to." Watson snaps, interrupting him. In truth- and something he was not foolish enough to add- those boys knew the men who were hunting them. All he needed in the way of 'evidence' rested with them. "And I don't want to. Frankly, I don't care why you want my boys or why you've been chasing them. All I care about is making sure you can't continue. So on your feet, boys. And if you so much as twitch the wrong way, I know how to use this _without _killing you. And I'd very much like a reason to show you."

* * *

"....Myke? Myke, you in here?"

"Alfred Webber, you should not be here. You're hurt. Go home!"

" 'M okay. Myke, th' doctor's worried sick 'bout you both-ah, no. Sherlock. Myke, 'e don't look-"

"He'll be alright. It's dangerous here, Alfred."

"No! Myke, th' doctor damn near ran himself into th' ground lookin' for you two. Only reason he ain't out here now is 'cause he can't walk-"

"He _what_? What happened?"

"No, he ain't- 's the cold, it bothers 'im, and 'tween looking for you this morning and what happened, he's hurting too bad and near sick himself-"

"What happened this morning?"

"I don't know. Just know he got in a dust up with two roughs-"

"Two men? Where?"

"I don't know! I just know he got in a fight and they both ended up arrested 'cause he marched 'em at _gunpoint_ right down to-"

"They're locked up?"

"I just said that, didn't I? He really don't sound good, Myke-he's burnin' up!"

"I know. He's been getting worse for the last few hours."

"You gotta get him outta here. He's gonna-"

"I won't let him-"

"Myke! You ain't stupid but this is stupid! He's dyin'!"

"He's_ sick_. That's all. We can't-I can't-"

"What?"

"Alfie, those men doctor Watson got into a fight with......they were the same two men that came after us at the house. I'm sure of it. And when they get loose, they'll come for us again, and they'll do it with a vengeance."

"They won't let 'em just walk away, Myke. Not after what the doctor said. They've got people lookin' for you-Sherlock-!"

"...."

"Myke? You _gotta _go back."

"I can't-"

"You're gonna let 'im die, then. Some big brother you are!"

"I'm trying to keep him-and _you,_ you little urchin- _safe_!"

"He ain't safe! He needs a doctor! He needs _the_ doctor! Myke! Please.....he's my friend. You both are. I can't just let-I can't-_please_ come back with me!"

"......_alright_."


	7. Chapter 7

"Doctor! Doctor!" Mrs. Hudson rarely ever crosses the line into panic, or hysteria. She's a calm, level headed woman, always has been- so when he hears that tone in her voice, he's instantly alert. He pushes upright with his stick, from his chair-no small effort- and limps to the stairs, hesitating to battle down them-for all of half a minute.

Because the second his eyes land on Alfie, dripping wet and huddled in a blanket Mrs. Hudson has draped over him, and just behind him an equally sopping Mycroft, who cradles a bundle in his arms clutched to his chest. A Sherlock sized bundle.

Oh, no.

Please, no.

He's down the stairs faster then he ever thought he could have managed them, actually skipping the last four, and at Mycroft's side.

"Mrs Hudson, are you feeling up to-"

"I'll get these two taken care of." Mrs. Hudson's eyes haven't left the tiny, huddled lump that is Sherlock. He's pale, but with two bright spots of color in his cheeks, shivering all over, so violently it shakes Mycroft, too, wheezing with harsh, racking coughs every so often seizing him. He's so still- too still, more then any child should ever be and even more so an active, inquisitive child like Sherlock.

"Mycroft. Sweetheart, you must let him go. Let go of Sherlock, now, Doctor Watson has him." The woman reaches out to place a hand on Mycroft's neck, and the teen jumps so violently he nearly falls. He blinks, once, twice, and simply clutches his brother more tightly. "Please," He whispers, and Watson's heart shatters.

"I'll help him. You're both going to be fine." He murmurs. "But you have to give him here, Mycroft. You have to trust me."

Mycroft doesn't move, hardly even breaths. His gray eyes, normally so stunning, are nearly black. He's even more wet then John was, and his own breath is rasping painfully; he's not nearly as bad off as his brother, but the cold has taken it's toll on him, too. He shakes his head no, almost imperecptiably, and glances back over his shoulder. Alfie moves to go to him, but Mrs. Hudson grabs him back and clutches him to her. John doesn't move.

"Mycroft. You know you can trust me. You've done an incredible job keeping him safe, but you need _help_, now, and that's what I want to do. Let me help."

Mycroft blinks, as if in a daze, then suddenly reels. His knees give out entirely, and John dives forward, his own leg and shoulder singing out in protest, and snags Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson catches Mycroft, ignoring Alfie's frightened cry, and it speaks to how exhausted and frightened he is when he lets her pull him under her arm.

"I'm sorry," The teen is whispering, "I'm sorry, I thought-I was- he's-I'm _sorry_-" His voice fails on a harsh cough of his own, and he tries to stand upright but can't quiet get there; his legs give out again.

"No, Mycroft." John gathers Sherlock closer. "Don't apologize. You've done more then anyone should ever expect of you. You did what you thought you must. There's no apology needed."

"Come on, boy." Mrs. Hudson says, gently brushing his hair out of his face. "Boys, I should say. Let's stay out of Doctor Watson's way and get you two warm. Plus, I'm sure your Grandmother is worried sick, Alfred."

Mycroft murmurs something indecipherable, and she simply rubs his back calmly. "It's alright, now. All alright, my boy-"

That's the last of it John hears. He manages the stairs-though more slowly, to his disgust, with his arms full and no added support for his game leg- and gets Sherlock to his own room. Desperately he strips the soaked cloths off the boy, and drys him, then puts him in dry, warm clothing, under the covers on his own bed. Dangerously high fever- first thing to do is bring it down.

And so he begins the struggle to save the boy's life.

* * *

"Mycroft? Lad? Awake?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"Good. Well, not good, precisely, but-I could use you in here."

"Is he alright? Did something-"

"Easy, easy, he's on his way back up the slope. But he's not resting easily and I have the odd feeling-"

"He needs me."

"Exactly."

"Alfie says the two men that came in the other day- he says you attacked them. Easy, little brother, it's alright now. Here, move over-Sherlock, _move_-"

"Careful with that arm-and yes. I did. Who are they, Mycroft?"

"....No one. It's nothing-"

"If it was no one, they wouldn't have been after you. Mycroft, do not lie to me."

"I'll explain it to you when he's well. I promise."

"_Mycroft_-"

"I promise."

"....at least get some rest, then. I can't have you getting sicker on my hands, too."

* * *

"I know it's unpleasant, Sherlock. Hush now." Hands stroking a cool rag across a burning forehead. "It'll be done soon, lad. You're almost through it." A soft, whimpering murmur, and Mycroft stroking his younger brother's forehead.

"I thought you said he was getting better."

"He is. Sherlock was a very sick young man, and you know it. The fever isn't dangerously high anymore, we just have to keep it down, and the shoulder looks good. You're both lucky it's healing well."

"His cough is gone, any rate."

"See? And his breathing's evened out. He'll be perfectly fine. But it won't happen overnight."

A soft whimper yet again, a gentle plea- "M'crof'-" And instantly, soft hands rubbing along his back and shoulders.

"Here. Right here."

"M'croft-"

"Right_ here_, Sherlock, hush now."

"Can't-Myke-"

"Doctor?"

"It's alright, Mycroft, he's just dreaming."

"I know he's d-"

"Mycroft! N', don'-le' m' 'lone-"

"Sherlock, no one's hurting you. It's just John, boy, settle down now."

Arms twining around him, rocking gently, pinning flailing limbs to his sides. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Pay attention. Listen. Listen to me. Pay attention to me."

"I can'-I-"

"Mycroft-"

"I've got him. Sherlock. Stop it, that's enough. Enough of it. I'm right here, I've got you-"

"Can' find-"

"Right here. Feel. Listen. I've got you. I'm here. You're safe. Come on, baby brother. Focus. You can hear me."

More hands, stroking the hot, fevered forehead. One big hand landing, tentatively at first, then more firmly, on the older brother's back. Rubbing up and down in hard, firm strokes.

"Mycroft?"

"See? There you are. Hello."

"Wha'?....I don'....can't think."

"You never do, anyway."

Soft chuckle.

"Mycroft."

"It's true enough, isn't it?"

"Sherlock, can you recognize me?"

"....'Tson."

"Close enough. Welcome back."

"I was somewhere?"

Another laugh. Arms gropping, finding Mycroft's sleeves. A low, tired noise, nuzzling into his shirt. Arms hugging him close, a face pressed into the mass of his dark hair.

"Yes, brother. But we're home now."

* * *

"I don't know what you think you're going to do with 'em."

"I'm not just going to trust the system to take care of them, Lestrade. I_ know_ the system. So do you, better even then me. Besides, it failed them once."

"We found the mother, Watson."

".....and?"

"And, she wants nothing to do with them. Won't consider putting herself and them into protective custody, won't even speak at a trial. Woman's half out of her head with grief. I don't think she was ever firmly situated there to start with."

"All the more reason-"

"You've gone and fallen in love with the little beggars. Stop lying about it and making excuses."

"Lestrade-"

"I'm not about to be the one to tell you you can't take them. I'm sure the mother'd give up custody faster then any of us would like to admit, and that's a sad fact. I'm just wondering if you've thought it all through."

"Absolutely not."

Snort of laughter.

"Then I was right. You _have_ gone and fallen in love with them. How's the little one doing?"

"Sherlock? Bouncing out of bed like a spring and getting into everything he can find. He very nearly blew up the kitchen yesterday."

"....How d'you-no, nevermind. I'm not sure I want to know."

"He's brilliant. They both are. They could out think most adults I know. Observant, too. To the point of it being frightening. Sometimes I wonder how they know half the things they know. And if they don't know something and can't find it out in a book, they make it a mission to put it to practical tests."

"So that's how a kitchen almost blows up."

"The short version, yes. I want to keep them, Lestrade."

"And I'm sure they want to stay. It's just- it's not going to be easy."

"Nothing worth it ever is."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: And we come to the end of it, four more chapters then I expected later. . I thank all of you for the amazing response this has received! Wow, I can't believe the amount of reviews and support I've gotten- I'm proud and flattered. Reviews make my life, haha! For those of you wondering, perhaps, about the loose ends here- this is meant to be done in a series of short fics and one shots. Further stories will fill in gaps and blanks, as well as delving further into the boy's pasts as well as Watson's, and their futures. **

**I once again thank KCS for her (somewhat belated, through no fault of her own) permission to use and abuse Alfie; I'm thrilled someone I respect and admire so much not only enjoys my work but let me use an OC of hers and her friends. ^^ **

**Also, said KCS informs me that she sees something of Bones McCoy in my Mycroft voice. 0.o While this is unintentional, it tickles me in all the right ways, and I had the dopiest grin on my face after hearing it. Oddly enough, it feels appropriate- Bones often plays the Tired and Tolerant Older Brother Figure to Jim and Spock, and he takes absolutely no BS- and poor Mycroft_ is _the Tired and Tolerant Older Brother who I see as _also_ taking absolutely no bullshit. They both strike me as being protective and possessive as well.  
**

**If anyone wishes to play in this world, please, feel free; if there are any questions, just poke me. **

**My condition is only this; please send me the link if you do anything with this universe. Thanks!  
**

_Crash! _

_Slam, **THUD**_**!**

"Sherlock-William-Watson-Holmes!"

"Not my fault!"

"Lier!"

John Watson's existence has changed immeasurably. After two months, he is no longer merely a half crippled ex-military doctor, but a father, something he never thought he'd get to call himself again. Not after his wife died. Not after his daughter died.

But now he has two very much alive, and very much not infant children currently stampeding through his house- and a third that's not his but might as well be.

With the progress of time, Sherlock has not gotten much bigger. He will always, John thinks, be rail-thin; but he's going to get some height, much like Mycroft predicted. He's a wild one, that child; smart as Watson perceived and every bit as curious as a kitten. He wants to know how everything works, why everything does what it does, and why people do what they do. He was never once shy-from the moment he was strong enough he was a litany of questions and comments.

Schooling bores him out of his dark-haired little head, however. He had a devil of a time even convincing the boys that schooling was yes, necessary, no, not too expensive, and _yes, going to happen, like it or not, Sherlock Holmes, and get** down** from that bookshelf- _

Mycroft is considerably calmer then his brother. Considerably larger, too, once given the chance; the boy fills out rapidly and doesn't share his younger brother's troubled relationship with food. (Privately, John is concerned when he notices the way Sherlock seems to simply disregard food; according to Mycroft, even before he was a bird like eater, but with his body trying to recover and recuperate, he needs nourishment.)

Mycroft, on the other hand, takes great pleasure in food and eating, and seems almost desperate at first to make up for the time he was deprived of both. If John isn't careful, the boy will quickly become overweight, yet for the moment, he's just barely at the weight a bigger child like himself _should_ be. Mycroft is tall, too, and built heavily. In fact, at the moment, he looks more healthy then his slimmer younger brother.

In many other ways, he's the same; inquisitive, but not the sort that will go racing about outside or climbing trees (though he has, twice, climbed up to the roof to haul Sherlock down, and shown surprising skill in it) and far more content in book-learning and studies to teach him anything he does not yet know. He's far above others his own age, schooling wise, and just as observant and clever as his younger brother- even more so, actually, from what John can see. He's fairly sedentary, and while Sherlock is eager and enthusiastic, accepting John as a part of the family with the ease of a seven year old and the desperation of an intelligent young man denied affection; Mycroft is wary and untrusting even two months later. But he's progressing; slowly, he's progressing.

Alfie and Sherlock now swing down the last four steps, and Mycroft is mere steps behind them. He snags the back of Sherlock's shirt as they get to ground level, yanking him off balance.

"Do I want to know what broke?" John asks, looking up from the book and sending the tangle of boys a glance.

"A wind-_ow_!" Mycroft's voice ends in a sharp growl and he promptly flips his little brother over his shoulder and drops him onto a nearby sofa.

"You_ broke _a _window_?" _Mrs. Hudson's going to kill them. And then me. _

"We didn't break a window, we just sorta.....cracked it....." Alfie's voice trails off. John groans, putting his head in his hands.

"Alright, that's _it_. Alfie, out. Go home. No, don't give me that look, go _home_." He's fighting to keep the amusement from his voice, but Alfie isn't stupid, and can pick up on it easily. He grins unabashedly at the man, and John pinches the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock perks up from the sofa, gray eyes twinkling under his mop of hair. "You're a bad faker, Watson." He informs with a grin of his own. He's never referred to him as 'doctor' or 'Mr'. It's always just been Watson. Mycroft is trying to break him of the habit; Watson can't bring himself to care.

"I may not be able to stay angry, but Mrs. Hudson can." He reminds.

"At least you don't have to be here for that." Sherlock says, and Mycroft tickles his ribs once-resulting is a snorted laugh and a kick to the leg- before standing up.

Alfie agreeably heads home after being given a few sweets to take with him and it's up to John to herd his boys upstairs, Sherlock wide-eyed and almost hyper awake (yet another unusual quality to the boy) and Mycroft already yawning. Mrs. Hudson won't be back for another hour or so yet, which gives him time to clean up and put the two of them to bed.

He can't believe that he has to consider that as part of his daily life now.

He limps up after them, listening with a wry smile to the sounds of Sherlock's voice ringing off the walls; Mycroft's deeper, calmer voice sounds out in echo.

He leans on the door frame of the extra bedroom which has become their bedroom, the two boys apparently oblivious to his presence. They are in the middle of a rather violent pillow fight, poor Sherlock being absolutely pummeled by his bigger sibling, and he smiles to see them acting like children, like the boys they are.

It's about time they had the opportunity.

It won't last; he knows that. There's still the process of speaking at the trail of the murders and kidnappers; while their mother willingly and unflinchingly gave up custody of her two boys, neither one seems to have dealt with it yet. It's more like it never even happened, and that, John knows, is far from healthy.

They are far from 'okay'.

"Alright, you two, eno-oof!" He grunts as a pillow hits him clean in the stomach, and instantly Mycroft freezes, looking for all the world like a puppy caught with his master's best shoe in his mouth. John raises a brow, looking at Sherlock-who is perched on the headboard- and then down to the pillow now at his feet.

He picks it up, slowly. Sherlock gets down, and crawls across the bed to Mycroft, biting his lower lip and watching John with those wide gray eyes of his. John lifts the pillow, hefts it-

-and it catches Mycroft full in the face.

Sherlock yelps in surprised delight, Mycroft ends up sprawled over the bed, and just as John is busily laughing at them both he finds himself double-teamed. He lets Sherlock take him to the floor and promptly begins the gentlest of wrestling matches while Mycroft watches from the bed, legs tucked up as if to get away from the danger zone.

So of course John has to reach up and haul him down.

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson returns, the house is far too quiet for her comfort. She does not hear the sound of the two children, and the place is spotless, which makes her all the more concerned. She troops up the stairs quietly, listening hard for muffled giggling or hushed voices; but still, there is nothing.

Upstairs is dark, and she pauses, worrying her lower lip. She knows that the danger is not completely gone, regarding the boys- suddenly, she's stricken with worry. What if something happened? What if those horrible men had gotten loose, come back, hurt them?

She pushes open the boy's bedroom door, very slowly. What she sees inside makes her clamp a hand over her mouth, the other pressed to her chest. Tears spring, unbidden, to her eyes, and a smile curves up her lips.

On the bed, seven year old Sherlock Holmes is curled into the tiniest ball imaginable in the crook made by John Watson's shoulder and side. His little fist grips Watson's sleeve in a loose sleep-hold, and his head rests on the man's arm. On the adult's other side is Mycroft Holmes, head on his ribs, one leg thrown over the older man's.

And between them, John himself is sleeping peacefully, smiling in his slumber, free arm situated around Mycroft. The bed is destroyed. The room is destroyed. Bits of pillow litter the floor. Someone spilled something in a corner, and one window is badly cracked, the drapes down.

But as Sherlock makes a content little sighing sound and burrows into John's ribs, she can't be angry. The journey, for these boys, is far from over; but they are no longer alone in it.

_Maybe they never were,_ she thinks, _**someone** must have been watching out for them. And him, too. He needed them and they needed him, and the Good Lord saw fit to bring them together. He does indeed work in mysterious ways. _ She whispers up a soft prayer of thanks- and for strength, too, for them in the next few months- and backs out of the doorway, shutting it gently behind her.


End file.
